


Always

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable, Alternate Stag-do ending, Declarations of love (sort of), Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Stag-do, drunk!lock, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8339989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: 'Run away with me.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> This follows the actual script of TSOT (roughly) up until...you'll know if you read it ;)  
> Please leave kudos and comment :)

‘Jaaaawn.’ Sherlock scrunched up his nose, staring blearily down his nose at John, who was sprawled in the chair opposite him. ‘I think…I think you spiked my drink.’ 

John giggled and lurched forward. ‘Noooooo. You’re _wrong._ ’ 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. ‘John. I am very- ‘scuse me- not wrong. I am _right_.’ 

‘I’m left,’ John laughed, as he held up his left hand. ‘Geddit? Left-handed!’ 

Sherlock laughed until he thought his sides would split. When had John become so _funny?_ ‘You’re left!’

John sniggered before losing interest and hauling himself out of the chair. ‘We should play a game.’   He wandered over to the desk before pulling out two post-it notes, flourishing them extravagantly. ‘Aha! Sher, Sher, Sher.’ He passed Sherlock a post-it note. ‘Write down a person.’ 

‘Can I write down me?’ Sherlock asked as he reached for a pen. ‘Whoopsie, not a pen. John. Why are we leaving cya- cya-‘

‘Cyanode?’ John shrugged. ‘Cyanatal?’

Sherlock moved the cyanide from hand to hand. ‘My mind palace says it’s dangerous-‘

‘Don’t listen to the mind palace,’ John scolded, ripping the phial out of his hand. ‘Listen to _John.’_

‘Yes, Captain.’ Sherlock took another pen, frowning at the curious sensation in his groin. ‘John- do I have a military kink?’ 

John wasn’t listening, tongue between teeth as he wrote down a name. Sherlock decided to ignore the curious sensation (for now) and glanced at a newspaper, picking out the first name he saw and writing it down. 

John leaned forward, sticking the post-it note on Sherlock’s forehead, scowling at one of the curls. ‘You should shave your head, Sher.’ 

Sherlock mock-gasped as he slammed the post-it note onto John’s forehead, missing and whacking the chair. ‘M’ curls are _important.’_

John smiled. ‘Me first. Am I a…vegetable?’ 

Sherlock squinted at the post-it note as he drank some more whiskey (it felt like fire, but _good_ fire). ‘You, or the thing?’ He laughed, and he saw John laughing too (oh, how he loved to make John laugh). ‘Funny!’ John grinned, and Sherlock ducked his head. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘Tell me,’ John slurred as he drank some of the whisky. 

‘Not a vegetable.’ At least, Sherlock assumed not. ‘My go. Am I…human?’

John shrugged and looked suspicious. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Jawn. Jawn, Jawn, Jawn. Can’t have sometimes.’ 

‘Yes, then.’ John glared at his empty class before flashing Sherlock a smile that made his heart jump a bit, God knew why. ‘Am I a man?’ 

‘Yup.’ Sherlock grinned: he was good at men. Very good. John was a man-

His mind palace screamed _NO!_ at him, and he jerked back to the game. ‘Tall?’ 

John sniggered. ‘Not as tall as people think.’ 

Sherlock’s lips thinned as he tried to concentrate, though he’d much prefer to stare at John. His expressions changed like the seasons: you barely noticed it had changed until it was gone. ‘Nice?’

‘Ish.’

‘Clever?’ Sherlock was just throwing out adjectives now: he had absolutely no idea, and he’d already forgotten the premise of the game. He just liked seeing John happy and smiling and at Baker Street, away from _Mary-_

‘I’d say so.’ 

Sherlock, who’d forgotten what he’d said, repeated, ‘You’d say so?’

John laughed and touched his head. Sherlock blinked. ‘Am I important?’ 

He coughed as he said, ‘To some people,’ stuttering on the S. Sherlock leaned very slightly forward, and John leaned in as well (subconsciously?). ‘Do people,’ he said quietly, and for some reason the alcohol clouding his head seemed to be evaporating, ‘Like me?’  

John grinned, leaning back, and Sherlock slid back into an alcohol-dazed stupor. ‘Er, no, they don’t. You tend to rub ‘em up the wrong way.’ 

Sherlock knew who it was. He leaned forwards a little more and said triumphantly, ‘Am I the current King of England?’ 

John stared at him in amazement (clearly at how clever he was). ‘Are you…we don't even have a King!’

Sherlock frowned. ‘We don’t?!’

‘No!’ John laughed, and he reached forward for his glass, picking it up and taking a long draft. Sherlock watched, transfixed, as he unfolded his legs and leaned forwards- 

John seemed to slip, bracing himself on Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. 

John stared at his hand on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock stared at John’s hand on his knee. John looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked down at John. 

And suddenly they’d collided, John pushing himself off his chair and into Sherlock’s lap, knee between his legs, hands pulling on his shoulders, his shirt, lips pressed against his, teeth biting, tongue stroking. 

Sherlock’s mind was malfunctioning. His hands were out to the sides, legs far apart, eyes wide open and cheeks flushed as he tried to make sense of the situation. ‘John-‘ he gasped, as John continued to nip at his bottom lip, ‘I don’t- you- you’re getting _married_ in four days-‘ 

John shook his head and stared at him, eyes lidded from the alcohol. ‘I’ve wanted to kiss you for over four years.’ 

Sherlock blinked rapidly, his alcohol-soaked brain refusing to compute what was going on. ‘So have I.’ 

John grinned. ‘Excellent.’ 

Then they were kissing again, and this time Sherlock was doing it properly, using everything he’d learned from Victor and Jim and Irene and the others, all put together to _kiss_ John, who he’d wanted to kiss from almost the moment he’d met him, and who _cared_ if John was engaged and who _cared_ if they’d never mention it again and who _cared_ if Sherlock was going to have his heart broken, because John had been breaking his heart since they’d met and this kiss, the best kiss of Sherlock’s life, was _so_ worth the heartbreak. 

John shifted so he was almost on Sherlock’s lap, grinding down against him with tiny strokes that made Sherlock gasp and moan and writhe in the chair, hands clenched against John’s waist as the older man panted above him, and deep in the back of his mind Sherlock registered that John had clearly done this before because the movements were precise and painful and so, _so_ pleasurable that it was only a matter of moments before Sherlock was coming in his trousers like a fourteen year old school boy. 

‘My God,’ he gasped, and John tilted his head back as he came as well, shuddering against Sherlock as he braced himself on the back of the chair. 

Silence descended on the flat. 

Sherlock couldn't believe he’d done it. He couldn't believe him and John had just had _sex,_ on his _chair,_ four days before John was due to marry _Mary-_

John’s hand moved Sherlock’s head so they were eye to eye, noses brushing against each other. John’s eyes filled Sherlock’s vision, and he said breathlessly, ‘Did you know that your eyes are the exact colour of a springtime sky?’ 

John rolled his eyes in a delightfully John-like manner, and he bent his head and kissed him again. 

This time it was slow and loving, gentle and sweet, and Sherlock’s heart thudded painfully as he wondered what John was trying to say with this kiss, though his influenced brain could still barely comprehend the situation- 

John drew away and yawned, wide and loud, and put his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Numbly, Sherlock realised that John was _asleep,_ asleep on his shoulder despite what they’d just done, and he moved his hand to awaken him but he looked so quiet, so peaceful, so _beautiful_ that Sherlock could just smile and gently pick him up. 

He carried John to his bedroom, because it was on the same floor and Sherlock didn't trust his intoxicated self to carry John safely up the stairs, and he laid him on his bed and looked at him for a moment, ignoring his rapidly rushing brain as it tried to make sense of what just happened-

‘Sherlock,’ John moaned from under the covers, and Sherlock turned to look at him. ‘John?  Are you-‘

John smiled up at him, a smile that even in the dark was so innocent and happy that Sherlock couldn't help but smile as well. ‘Sherlock?’ 

‘John,’ Sherlock breathed, and John pulled Sherlock towards him so their heads were touching, his lips just grazing Sherlock’s left ear as he murmured, ‘Will you run away with me?’ 

Sherlock raised his right hand and gently stroked his blogger’s, flatmate’s, best friend’s cheek. ‘You don’t even need to ask,’ he whispered. ‘Always.’ 

He waited for John to say something but the older man stayed silent, and Sherlock realised he’d fallen asleep, head on Sherlock’s pillow, arms loose around his head. 

Sherlock carefully slid under the covers and wrapped an arm around John. He would think about what he’d done in the morning - for now, he was going to lie here, wait for the alcohol to clear from his brain, and then commit every detail of the last hour to his memory.

 _I will always love John Watson,_ he mused as he fell asleep. _Always_. 

 


End file.
